


Please - have faith.

by apostapals (apostapal)



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-28 15:30:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8451814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apostapal/pseuds/apostapals
Summary: Fenris writes Hawke letters.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Fenris starts writing letters, he tells himself, to help with his writing. He tries to ignore the fact all the letters are for Hawke. Hawke is just the first person he’s ever had to write about–or for–he tells himself.

It may also be because he feels guilty.

He folds each and every one up and stuffs them in an old chest under his bed once he finishes. They range from simple, unsaid things to much much more. He’s trying to find the words for what he actually means to tell him.

_Dear Hawke,_

_I thought of you today, walking through the market. I wanted to go to your door and ask to come in. Ask to see you. I didn’t._

_I’m Sorry,  
Fenris_

Fenris sighs and fights the urge to crumple the paper as he folds it into thirds and stuffs it into the box. His chest feels tight. Tighter than it did when he looked, long and hard, at Hawke’s door before turning and heading for his own.

He misses Hawke. Misses his laugh and smile and the twinkle in his eye. Misses warm hands and scrapping stubble. Misses the softness of him–firm but still somehow giving, both physically and emotionally.

_Dear Hawke,_

_I want to hate you. You are a mage, you are not safe. But you feel like the only safety I’ve ever had. I want to hate you so badly but I cannot. So I simply wait and hope you will do it for me._

_Please,  
Fenris_

He does crumple this one. Throws it into the chest without a second thought and shoves it, roughly, back under his bed.

Hawke is sad. He knows the man better than most–the slump in his shoulders and slowing of his pace is far too telling.

Fenris wants to comfort him. Wants to be with him, in whatever capacity he can, but it is impossible. He is not worthy of Hawke. He wants to hate Hawke but, in the end, Fenris can only bring him to hate himself for hurting Hawke.

_Dear Hawke,_

_I’m so sorry._

_Fenris_

Tears hit the paper before Fenris can fold it. He shakes, tries to recover, but it’s impossible. He has to wait for the page to dry before he folds it up and stows it in the box with the rest.

So-far, it is the closest he’s come to expressing how he feels. It hurts.

_Dear Hawke,_

_I am a broken man. I love you more than anything. But I cannot speak it, cannot let you hear it, because I am afraid. Not of you, not of love. I am afraid of hurting you._

_Forgive Me,  
Fenris_

Fenris never imagines what it would be like for Hawke to find the box. Hawke does not pry, Hawke is kind. He would never ask to see it, even with Fenris anxiously kicking the box under his bed when the man arrives to speak one evening.

Secretly, he wishes he would. It would make things so much easier.

_Dear Hawke,_

_You are my world. You’re too warm, smell like the dog, leave beard hairs everywhere, have far too rough skin on your hands, and are often too loud. I love you more than anything else. Please, please never feel like you are less than wonderful._

_Love,  
Fenris_

This is the only one Hawke reads. Fenris leaves it on his desk, a few weeks after they’ve begun living together. He never expects the man to react quite how he does, however.

“Hawke, are you crying?”

Hawke turns and wipes frantically at his face, laughing weakly and curling the letter closer to his body protectively. Fenris takes a step closer, tentative, and rests a hand on his arm.

“Thank you. I–this is very well written, Fenris.” he says finally, with a smile that warms Fenris to his very core.

Fenris laughs and rubs Hawke’s arm comfortingly.

“It took some practice.” he says. “You don’t want to see the earlier drafts, trust me.”

Hawke laughs and pulls him down into an embrace, buries his scruffy face in the crook of Fenris’ neck and squeezes him just a hair below too tight. The elf all but melts over the feeling–being wanted close.

“Ah,” he says. “you know I have a weakness for things that have a rough start.”


End file.
